


Crowned With Cruelty

by avaloncat555



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Schneewittchen | Snow White (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Blood Magic, Blood and Violence, Child Neglect, Curses, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Fairy Tale Retellings, Forests, Hypnotism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infanticide, Narcissism, Nature Magic, Nature Versus Nurture, Partial Mind Control, So Beautiful It's a Curse- trope, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25610695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avaloncat555/pseuds/avaloncat555
Summary: They forget, so very often, that she was more than a princess. She was a sorceress's daughter, born from snow and blood and ebony, that she could never espace white and red and black, no matter how hard she tried. And gods, did she try.( A story about Fairest of Them All, snippets of life she led, and how her mother's actions haunted her.)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 5





	1. How Fairest of Them All Was Born

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading, hope you liked it, please comment!  
> This is my take on the Snow White story, based on Grimm's story, and another one recorded by them, about child appearing magically from snow, blood and ravens.

She must have loved king once. She still did, in some way. Probably.

Thing is, love was a lot simpler than most people thought, and at same time very different but also exactly like what naive, idealistic youths took it for. It happened naturally, in the moment, yes, but it wasn’t feeling. It was action. People had debated and discussed for ages how much of it was affection and how much passion, which was more fundamental, the trust or time spent together, whether age burned out enthusiasm and deepened respect or brought understanding at cost of attraction…

The queen knew, in way she knew her own name, that love simply _was._

You gave birth to child? You loved it, and it loved you back.

You shared bed with somebody? Two (or more of you) loved each other, at least in that moment.

You exchanged marriage vows? You loved each other.

Love was simply natural, a name for relationship that started when you did something intimate with another, something that you couldn’t just do with anybody, but only with somebody worthy of you. Love was result of that special transaction, and it ensured that all was well between two of you.

Her husband had loved her very much, as should be obvious by fact that he married her. He allowed her her own chambers, to speak with his kinsmen, lords and bannersmen like an equal, trusted her input in his decisions and decrees, allowed her to advise and admonish him as she saw fit, and to spend her money as she wanted, and even gave her key to his treasury. This all meant that their love was very deep, and thus entirely deserved, for queen had won it with her pedigree, as ancient and heroic as that of king’s own line, her reason and critical thinking, her ability to read and influence people, to prepare medicines and poisons, her gift for counting and organizing, her network of spies, as well as her craft, that allowed her to predict things yet to be, and determine how next year’s harvest would go.

He was kind, polite and considerate towards her because she had deserved it, because all men in world owed her that. She was fairest of them all, with her wavy hair, which seemingly never lost volume or got tangled, like strands of copper, and always done in form of intricate, respectful but enthralling braids, and no crown could come close to wildflowers she wove in them. Her skin was as soft as apple blossoms, and her cheeks and lips as lively as rosebuds, and she had eyes color of grass in May meadow, and flowers and jewels equally suited her. She always smelled very sweet, in fragrances of most well tended gardens, and dressed in colours as lovely and pretty as those of butterfly’s wings.

There was some strange, mature innocence in her eyes, and delicious, barely-tamed arrogance in her smile. Her face was tiny, delicate and soft, unmarred and well tended, and she had slight waist and slender limbs, almost as if she was doll made and painted by some very tender and careful artist. She went well with king, who was tall and broad and had face that was always full of coarse hair and exhaustion, like a bear in the last days of November, whose horses never lasted long and who could quite possibly crack man’s skull with his bare hands.

( He had never hit her, for she never did anything to provoke him.

The queen believed that everything in life happened for some reason. Not because of gods, or some cosmic justice, but because actions reaped consequences. Thus, queen had no sympathy for children or women abused and battered by their fathers and husbands. If they were treated like that, they probably did something to deserve it. And if man was truly wicked to core, and simply loved tormenting everybody around himself, then they deserved it because they were far too weak to stop him.

The queen knew, just as she knew her own name, that sympathy only made you waste time and effort needed for your own goals on those undeserving of even your contempt.)

He wasn’t faithful to her, because she never gave him heir.

He was fair, for a king, and he didn’t admonish her for that, nor did he lessen her privileges, or even think of casting her away, for he was well aware, as only the few are, that a strong queen that would be clever, formidable partner was rare treasure. And he was wise, for sorceress scorned and humliated was a terrible enemy to have.

But still he was a king, and so he took up mistress. One, yes, but you only needed to cut off somebody’s head once too, and he might have very well done that to her.

The king’s new lady was woman of considerable beauty, but far lesser than that of queen’s. And though she was probably bit more warm and easy to get along with, because for all her charm and manners queen could be truly vindictive and far too eager to show off her superiority, and though she had her own talents and a quite sharp mind, she couldn’t match queen’s cunning, nor education and knowledge Her Majesty possessed, and of course she knew nothing of magical arts. Much conflict had there been between two of them, and their families, who was superior, who was wealthier, who was closer to crown, who slaughtered more of rival’s sons under cloak of night, more of fathers on battlefields, ever since they were young, for they were loyal to their families, and helf to ancient feuds stronger than to their own life.

But court, who are flippant, capricious bunch, and have no use for cleverness, determined that king’s lady had won, for she was of far more robust health, and of wider hips, and day after queen gave birth to first and last child she managed to carry to term, a stillborn girl, the king’s lady gave birth to a healthy young boy, and then another, and another, until seven of them were running through palace, and none were ever called bastards, except by the queen, when the king couldn’t hear.

“The violets may be prettier than oaks, but when you need carve doors for your stronghold, common oak is only choice!” Some minor nobleman said, and his companions laughed, and queen burned with rage, and grasped her throne’s sides until her knuckles turned white, for she had to hold her tongue. Still she held door for treasury, and still king discussed all his decisions with her, and still all spies answered to her, and still she could send hail upon neighbor’s harvests, and lady lived in comfort but away from queen, but..

But king’s children numbered seven, and they were allowed to call themselves his sons, and ate at same table as them, but still their mother saw them often enough to have far too much influence for queen’s liking.

And the first prince was growing up to be very beautiful, and second proved himself natural with sword and bow, and third was good at diplomacy, and fourth had cunning glint in eyes, and fifth amazed all his tutors, and sixth was as obstinate and unwilling to obey her as much as seventh (who had not yet reached a year) was attached to his mother.

And king didn’t blame her, but neither apologized, as was his right, and he didn’t come anymore to her chambers and so said nothing and did nothing to noblemen and huntsmen she brought in her bed. But his warriors, cousins, bannersmen **did** , and so did his lady, and queen couldn’t slip a powder of herbs and innards in her wine, nor could she afford to burn king’s lady’s hair over specific hearth so that plague might strike her or bury poppet with her name on road so that carriage might run her over, and people _talked_.

The king was growing old. Were boar to gore him during hunt too deeply, or cold to take him too harshly, or were war to break out and last too long, or were he to fall from horse in accident over too firm ground… The king’s lady was gathering her own followers, and none of princes loved or even respected the queen..

Well, no wonder poor woman went mad, no?

When she started talking about how the king’s lady had poisoned her, so that she might miscarry, fail to deliver her daughter, people took it for simple envy and spite, but agreed that there may even be grain of truth in that. Even when queen claimed the king’s lady had been poisoning her for years, they agreed that paranoia was more than to be expected, and far easier to blame other woman than accept she was failure, and perhaps there was some truth in that, though it was truly outlandishly brave of her to say so to king’s face. But she was angry, and desperate, and king was always easy on her, as was only reasonable with woman who might steal his dreams and turn him in a frog.

Some began to wonder, when queen accused the king’s lady of resorting to witchcraft, that she had paid witches to cast spells, so that she could steal life of queen’s daughter to fuel life of her son, for that was very ironic and unexpected accusation, but always people sought to find their own faults in others, and few even wondered if there may be truth in that, for one sorceress might be able to recognize work of another.

But they were sure, when one day king found queen writing a letter, and upon his inquiry she looked startled, and answered that as each week, she was writing letter to their daughter. Their daughter, who was so beautiful that upon hour of her birth she was sent to fosterage to queen’s mother and brother (who had both died long, long ago). And though she could still count and curse and advise as well as before, and appeared as reasonable as ever, none could break her of convinction that her daughter was alive, and very beautiful, and fully befitting of being king’s firstborn, and that she terribly missed her home.

Such was her convinction, that in middle of summer, six months before eldest prince turned fourteen, she started to beg her husband to help her arrange her gifts, and carriage, and to prepare herself for travel, for their daughter wanted to spend time with her family, and share birthday with her half-brother. And though she took no money from treasury, she started to plan princess’s feast, and embroider her a dress, and spoke with frequent fervor how it would take her a two weeks to go to her brother’s home and back, and how she didn’t want to be late to such important occasion, for it would break her daughter’s heart.

The king pitied her, and remembered fact that queen’s sister-in-law and nephew, to whom she was always very close to, and who were often able to steer her moods and alleviate her sadness still lived, and thought that there could be no harm in letting queen leave, for she had already began grumbling over fact that no cook prepared meals for her daughter’s birthday, and he couldn’t imagine what terrible shock she would bear at celebration itself (nor did he dare contemplate, what sort of curse she could work onto them all, if somebody pushed her over the edge).

And so he had let her go, two weeks before his son’s birthday, for her sister-in-law was gentle and wise woman, who would know how to keep her safe, and find way to stop disaster that would be imminent, should queen return to his son’s birthday. When he couldn’t see, the king’s lady laughed, though her sons told her that was cruel.

Once her carriage left the king’s stronghold, the queen laughed too.

On the first day in her ancestral home, she consulted her father’s mirror, which had never lied, and in which she could sometimes glimpse future, and once again made sure that none were watching her (whether by spies that could be bought with gold, or drops of blood under moonlight), that none knew of her plans and that no trouble unforeseen would stand in her way.

On second day, she checked books and scrolls she had amassed over years, for quite heavy price (though none were paid with coin or jewel or acre of land, but far more valuable things), collected subtly and securely while king was enjoying his newfound and ever-growing family, and once again made sure that she had memorized words she would need to speak, and amulets she would need to craft.

On third day, she put upon her special cloak, which she always kept hidden in locked chest, for her mother had woven it for her and inlaid it with feather of each bird that lived in their lands ( **“You are Freya in born in human flesh, my beautiful, powerful child”** , said her mother, again and again, and suffered for it, but that would be some other story) and in half of an hour she had fled castle of king and towns of men for her own hidden halls, which rose high in defiance of Forest that grew on edges of human world.

On fourth day, she put upon her head a helmet of wyrm’s skull, and robes of giant’s skin, and earrings of draugr’s fingers, and necklace of glass, said to contain the tears of sailor's ghost, and when moon rose at midnight she walked to edge of Forest, and took up fallen branches of ebony trees that grew there unchanging for centuries, and from them she carved four staffs and two eyes and one comb, and each shape in wood had it’s meaning and function, and set them in snow.

On fifth day she returned, and found them unmoved and untouched, though terrible blizzard had blown that day, and around them she shaped a child from snow, not stopping even as her knees stung from cold, even as her shawls turned wet, even as her fingers turned stiff and pink, as her teeth hurt from cold, as her nails broke.

On sixth day she returned with her servants, who slit throats of beggars, and pettiest and worst criminals they could find, and street urchins,and the orphans and bastards, and those poor souls who lived alone because their villages deemed them mad and stupid and wicked, and of brigands and robbers and sick, all those who wouldn’t be missed, even though everybody would notice their disappearance. Then she rung a little bronze bell, and each wound servants brough forth appeared on their own bodies, and then queen took out a bottle of powder, and blew it upon bodies, when blood had soiled snow until it was as pink as tender pork, and flesh rotted away until only pearly bones and black ash were left behind. And then, she sat down in snow, wrapped in doeskin and fox’s furs, and waited through day and noon, fighting hunger, cold and temptations of sleep.

And on the seventh day, when death breathed upon her neck, and Hel made arrangements to receive her, the queen did three things. First, she took out a silver needle, such that you might use for embroidery, sharp as thorn, as painful as splinter lodged under nail, and pricked her finger. The second thing I will tell you not, for all creatures reserve respect of some kind, and she paid hefty price to attain such knowledge. But third I can tell you, though I think you should have guessed by now, if you know how these things go- she bargained.

(You must understand that, though queen could be as nasty as plague stricken rat, and more arrogant than thousand berserkers, and though she wasn’t tenth as special as her mother thought, or half as wise as her father took her for, she did have her moments.

She knew that mortal magic, whether that of witches or volvas, or dragons or giants, or even draugr and Forests, was far from all mighty. To create life was far from possibility for any of them, and required aid of deeper, older powers, ones not from this world. Powers that required price.

She had her moments-she had sought out, fifteen years prior, to find one that wasn’t cruel.)

And as bargain was completed, and queen clothed in ermine and gold, she couldn’t turn her gaze from figure she had made, which started trembling in hour in which, twice seven years ago, her contractions had begun. She watched as four staffs trashed and tumbled, like baby learning to walk, and wooden eyes blinked, and comb drove through snow until it’s colour had bled out into it. She watched as ice covered wood, as pinkness was drawn out from newly formed bones, and joined snowmelt in blood that flowed through veins of frost, as rime and ash coiled together and crafted pale skin, as some invisible hands sculpted king’s nose and queen’s eyebrows unto child, and as snowflakes wove themselves in tiny little slippers and stockings, skirts and coat, bows and crown, lovely and delicate.

Her daughter stood before her, born from magic and massacre, and she was **beautiful**.

Queen howled with triumph, and grasped girl’s hand, cold as dead fish, and flapped her feather cloak, and in a quarter of hour two of them found themselves before doors of largest of king’s halls. Queen waved her hand, and they were thrust open, as if they were assailed upon by the greatest army in the lands, and they opened with sound like thunder, such that it overpowered all bards and all drunk bannersmen arguing, and those closest to doors, it is said, had fainted, and few had problems with hearing for rest of their lives.

“Behold, o kingdom, your princess! Behold, o princes, your sister. Behold, o my lord husband, your firstborn!” Queen exclaimed, as silent girl walked hesitantly, daintily, unto silent hall, as all gazed and gaped upon her, andnone disbelieved queen, even ones who didn’t see a perfect bland of her mother’s figure, her father’s lines. They should have, were it any other child, they should have thought of orphans quietly bought and trained to act like true royalty, of illusions and spells, and would have were it any other girl, but this one, she was…

She was beautiful. You must understand, she wasn’t pretty, or sweet, or cute, or good looking. When she grew up, she would never be attractive or handsome. Were she dead, were she broken and bruised and bleeding and covered in filth and dressed in rags, she would be equally stunning as she was now. Such was her beauty, strange and otherworldly, kind that struck you down to bones, until you wanted to waste away because eating and sleeping would take away attention from miracle that she was, until you would cut out your own heart as present for her, more akin to statue of terrible goddess than a girl.

You can’t blame the king’s lady for begging for forgiveness. To think that this girl had been hidden away in fostering while her spawn enjoyed comforts of palace, that such true royalty had been sidelined while her brats rolled in privileges their statues granted them, that her inferior son had such gotten even a single crumb when they should have been celebrating birth of such wonder? So she knelt, and apologized for fact that princess had to share name, inheritance and air with her bastards.

You can’t blame the court, the commoners, the citizens, the country for weeping when they saw her, moaning as guilt eclipsed them, the boy’s tutors jumping away from them as if they were plague stricken, the lady’s handmaidens for hissing at her, the stablehands for spitting in king’s face. Few who heard what happened later would recoil in horror, until they had seen princess, and then everything made perfect sense.

You can’t blame them for cheering as decision was made.

You can’t blame the queen for suggesting it.

You can’t blame the king for agreeing.

You can’t blame the lady for sighing with contentment as she heard king’s decision.

So whom can you blame, for fact that seven princes happily skipped to their death, all so that their sister, whose name they didn’t even know, might be named the heir?

( Humans always ask, and so often the answer is same- the one who never asked to be born, who still screams and begs to become part of woods and blizzards and flesh again.)

It was as queen watched ravens feast on body of the youngest prince, swaying on rope, his head, once full of that fat and rosiness that can be found only with three year olds, turned blue and gaunt yet still smiling, that she realized her mistakes.

She had sought power willing to grant her wish that wouldn’t be cruel. But she didn’t ask after one who would have been kind.

And so she got her wish. A daughter so beautiful that no mortal might be able to resist her allure, no more than they could deny winter’s chill- perhaps few would be able to bundle themselves up, build flames to keep it away, but they would still feel it.

A daughter so beautiful that any her wish would be granted. That wars would be waged, and centuries old feuds stopped for sake of second-long sight of her. A daughter so beautiful that all would dread her, and desire to obey her. A daughter so beautiful that she would be named heir without anybody complaining, that she could rule world when she has grown.

A daughter, who when grown would have no need of her mother, who wouldn’t be able to influence her in any way, or defend herself against wonder she had created.

(She understood three things then. First, why they boys thanked her as she sent them to their death.

Second, that her daughter was her greatest spell. And thus, only force strong enough to wholly crush her spirit.

Third, that one day her princess would be the fairest of them all. And then, the queen would be ready to give her her own heart as present, because girl had earned it.)

And that is where trouble started, because queen couldn’t think of anybody having power over another and nor using it, and she thought herself only one who didn’t like to be controlled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading hope you liked it!  
> next chapters will deal more with Snow White's perspective.
> 
> I would also want to state that, as we are in state of pandemic, that I pray all of you are safe and healthy, alongside your families, friends and everybody you care. Please keep safe, and I hope that your countries are doing good job of treating sick and preventing spreading, and if not, that it will improve.
> 
> I would also ask everybody to remember that Black Lives Matter, and to be aware of injustice and horrifiying atrocity being perpetuated on our fellow human beings. Please keep yourself aware and try to help in any way you can. If you are capable of contributing to cause, here is lists of actions that could require your help: https://patterns-acnh.tumblr.com/post/619576410575699968/places-to-donate-and-sign-to-support-blm. and if you aren't in situation, no shame, but at least check out this video: https://poguesgold.tumblr.com/post/619746026049421312/how-to-donate-to-blm-when-you-have-no-money
> 
> Also, if you are able to, please help out White Mountain Apache Tribe, who was harshly impacted by Covid-19, in large part due to irresponsibility and apathy of government: https://www.gofundme.com/f/white-mountain-apache-tribe-covid19-relief-fund  
> Alongside Indigenous People who are protesting desecration of sacred lands stolen from Lakota people: https://bhlegalfund.org/
> 
> I would also like to ask people to be aware of protests happening in Serbia, in response to police brutality visited upon protesters, due to how government mishandled pandemic situation and endangered it's people, which are not covered by mainstream media: https://epikurova-naslednica.tumblr.com/post/623110731683053568/share-we-need-to-raise-awareness-about-this


	2. Daughter of Roots and Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it, please comment!

There are many expectations place on princesses, from being demure to being elegant. Whether that is an unjust and bizzare code they must follow to detriment of their time and mental functions, or a small price to pay for unjust status and power they wield due to accident of birth, is for some other people to consider.

One of few things Snow White had in common with all (well, most, because always there were strange exceptions) princesses was that her birth, as is to be expected of such process, was anything but graceful. And one thing it was different from all the rest was that she became unparalably ethereal in movement and stride few seconds afterwards.

Her mother, accursed be her name and hounded be her soul by wrathful gods till world stops turning, was a cruel, self-obsessed, paranoid, shallow, lying, controlling monster, an absolute failure of parent, and more than capable sorceress. She wanted a beautiful girl who would be perfect heiress and puppet, and she knew how to get her by skipping all boring bits. Why waste years and money and nerves on tutors and hopes and growing up when you can just craft yourself a perfect little girl to whom courtsery came as natural as breathing?

Old snow upon ground. The blizzard that bent old trees. The frost that claimed lives upon lives. The ancient trunk, struck down by unforgiving axe. The wood still wet and covered by pitch. The black forest that was home to worms and eagles. The needle upon her mother’s fingertip. The cut throat of sveen times seven sacrifices, slashed before they could scream. The hot blood hissing as it splashes the white ground.

In moment, she will learn how to dance quiet and sweet. In moment she will know how to bow with great respect towards her elders. In moment she will know how to embroider, and match jewelry, and how to seat nobles by rank. But in those few moments, in those too short seconds, she is still what her mother made her of. And so she rises, wild and free and bestial, and looks upon her mother with eyes pure and hungry in way human’s could never be.

She is not angry, or dangerous, or violent, not yet. But a wild nightingale is no less feral than an angry bear.

* * *

She waits in shades and bushes, stalking her prey.

Her hair is long and tangled, full of knots, uncombed in years, strands cut unevenly. And yet it is still beautiful and healthy- it will always be such, no matter what she tries, how much she begs, how much she tears it out- and though dull of feathers and leaves, it will never be infested by lice, it never gets stuck, but sways and writhes, slow and subtle, like thin branch on gentle wind. It blends among darkness and bark, providing cover from threat her skin presents, shining like diamond in summer, from how her lips attract predators small and great, wrapping around her like curtain.

She watches deer move, and waits. She has to strain her eyes, for they are not yet as sharp as those of falcon, or or an owl, but someday they will be- she is already halfway there, wolf pack having nuzzled against her yesterday, the boar having bowed to her this morning.

( All tales end in woods, or start there, depending on whom you ask, sooner or later.

The Forest waits on edges of known world, the land of twilight, the kingdom of living memory. It has seen first foundations of first brick of things that came before men be laid down, and it shall see last civilization’s remnants collapse, and there shall be no more wars or art someday, no divisions or discovery, only the long green and gentle autumn. Heroes must pass through it on their quests, and there they encounter risk and wonder and mystery, but she- she ran in, and dared to ask for refuge.

Already she is changing, being bound by roots, by chill of Forest’s strange mornings, by land that has never known blood upon blades, only on teeth. Someday, she will become something wilder and happier, a beast to replace statue her mother desired- but that day is, unfortunately so far away.)

Brown and grey and green she is, the leather and animal hides and furs dyed with grass and herbs (she will have to learn more, how to make them from flowers, from fruits- she is so tired from white and red and black). It is not much, but it is most a former princess could do, and she think she has right to be proud of herself. Dwarves are wise, and kind, but their kind requires neither sustenance, nor sleep, nor comfort. It is upon Snow White to turn their lair, where seven great hollow trees grow one in another, located above chasm and network of tunnels, into home. It is she who has to skin rabbits, and make needles out of bones, using her own hair as thread, she who has to catch fish with her own hands and roast them above flames sparked from stones ( she refuses to give up, to sink her teeth in soft flesh and weak bone like the true beast), ignoring oil and fat upon her fingers.

The deer moves. And Snow White lounges.

* * *

_Come._

She was idiot. She a fool, and unrepentant moron, the empty head worthy of biggest scorn. She should have known, that things like her aren’t allowed to rest. She cannot live, for she must be a story, and story always repeats. Always it is same, even if details change. A girl more beautiful than any in the world, and those who blame her for that, desire her, seek to possess her, ruin her.

_Come, daughter._

Well, she won’t allow that. Happily ever after is passed, and her love is dead, and her youth is gone forevermore, and her kingdom is forgotten, and her innocence is no more, perhaps it has never been there, but that won’t stop them. Her story is done and rules are oveer and she has no need to follow them.

_Welcome home, Snow White._

The Forest rises in twilight, tall and deep and free. The monster runs it, monster that was once a girl, knowing that line is crossed, that after this she will never deny herself- never spare any other, no matter how their throats tremble, forbidden to scream.

She will live, no matter the price. And it isn’t evil- evil has purpose, and wolf only wants to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one this time.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, please comment!
> 
> I would also want to state that, as we are in state of pandemic, that I pray all of you are safe and healthy, alongside your families, friends and everybody you care. Please keep safe, and I hope that your countries are doing good job of treating sick and preventing spreading, and if not, that it will improve.
> 
> I would also ask everybody to remember that Black Lives Matter, and to be aware of injustice and horrifiying atrocity being perpetuated on our fellow human beings. Please keep yourself aware and try to help in any way you can. If you are capable of contributing to cause, here is lists of actions that could require your help: https://patterns-acnh.tumblr.com/post/619576410575699968/places-to-donate-and-sign-to-support-blm. and if you aren't in situation, no shame, but at least check out this video: https://poguesgold.tumblr.com/post/619746026049421312/how-to-donate-to-blm-when-you-have-no-money
> 
> Also, if you are able to, please help out White Mountain Apache Tribe, who was harshly impacted by Covid-19, in large part due to irresponsibility and apathy of government: https://www.gofundme.com/f/white-mountain-apache-tribe-covid19-relief-fund  
> Alongside Indigenous People who are protesting desecration of sacred lands stolen from Lakota people: https://bhlegalfund.org/
> 
> I would also like to ask people to be aware of protests happening in Serbia, in response to police brutality visited upon protesters, due to how government mishandled pandemic situation and endangered it's people, which are not covered by mainstream media: https://epikurova-naslednica.tumblr.com/post/623110731683053568/share-we-need-to-raise-awareness-about-this


	3. Is There Anything Behind My Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading hope you liked it please comment!

She is born knowing three things.

First is that her skin is as white as snow, her lips as red as blood, her hair as black as ebony.

Second is that seven times seven men had died so that she should live.

Third is, she shouldn’t exist.

( Harsh thing for child to know, much less from moment of her birth. And harsher yet, she is right.

Were we willing to waste time in such way, we could debate about morality, about whether sins of parents transfer to children, about personal responsibility and knowledge men shouldn’t wield, about whether you can blame her for what her beauty drives men to anymore then you can blame fire for burning those who get close- but that isn’t kind of right we are talking about here.

It is a simple truth, written in bones of world, in lifeblood of universe, in skin of night and face of day- the snow shouldn’t become person, because it is impossible.

But magic never cared about such things.)

She has feared her mother from very start, you see, and perhaps that is where trouble started, or mayhaps that saved her life. She knew she shouldn’t be, you see, but very little else, as she was still just a newborn, and had never seen human before, though parts of her belonged to them, of course.

And queen may have not slept in while, and was rather cold and hungry and scared, and quite dainty woman to be honest, but she had this way of holding herself that made people defer to her, and she was all wrapped up in ermine and gold velvet and pearls, and she oozed magic like an old fish oozed stench, and child could see bargain wrapping up around two of them, and well she knew nothing of sorcery and it’s limitations, so she must be forgiven for assuming this woman was deity who created her.

(Like I said, it was bad idea all from the start.)

“ My goddess. You who made me.” Said the girl, for her mother could be clever and careful when she put her mind to it, and had requested for girl to have knowledge befitting her age and station, because everything else would have been rather awkward for her, and more importantly bad for her mother’s plans.

“Not exactly, my dear. I am a human, I am afraid.” The queen answered, after some consideration, because she did like being called goddess, even though she associated it more with her young lovers and her poor mother, but it would be quite strange for princess to go around talking like that, and even queen, as hungry for flattery as she was, was made uncomfortable by thought of girl meant to be her daughter worshipping her.

“My mistress. You who own me.” Girl stated, slowly, drawing out words, her throat feeling quite funny, speaking for first time, as languages and social norms and concepts and table manners filled her head as flood fills empty house, for girl had no memories and experiences to trouble incoming information.

“Well! That was nicely put, though accent could use some work, but not befitting somebody of your station. Try again, dear.” Said the queen, as her face settled down in an expression more befitting on a cat who just snatched a canary, and closed her eyes, her eyelids fluttering as she imagined her servants speaking in that delightfully obedient tone, so sure of their place, below her, defined by her.

‘My mother. You who gave me life.’‘ She says, still kneeling, and years later she will forget, or try to, bury it down, of how the queen’s s smile grew when she heard those words, how she sat down and embraced still kneeling girl, and flinched when her warm hands touched cold, hard skin. It bruised her arms a bit, as if she had tried to hug a statue left out too long in winter’s winds.

“Yes, my dear.” Queen said, clutching her dark hair in her fingers, embracing her so hard that she almost had trouble breathing, and breathed in her daughter’s smell, harsh and sweet aroma of pitch, the comforting freshness of newly fallen snow, the sharp smell of iron and salt.

The princess, who still didn’t know what perfumes were, smelled her mother, the scent of flowers and herbs permeating her clothing, and underneath it something gross and hot (she had not yet known what sweat and soft human skin were like) and wondered why they were so different, and decided that didn’t matter.

* * *

They arrive to place that girl nameless supposes is to be her home in quarter of hour, faster than the queen had ever journeyed before, for magic is ever fed by passion and from the heart, and queen had been almost drunk on pride of her success, joy from what would that mean for her, from terror and euphoria girl’s beauty awoke in her, and as she hadn’t slept and eaten in some time, and had almost died, her emotions running high and mad, so it wouldn’t be hard for her to jump over to another country.

“This is my castle.” The mother tells her, showing her wooden ring fortress, as they stand before wooden doors of main hall, and great noise is coming from it. Were somebody to watch, they would probably think girl emotionless, the hollow heartless thing, for she shows neither fear nor wonder (well, if she wasn’t so beautiful, that is, and they were able to focus on something else other than it). But truth is, she is still far too young to know about wealth and royal power, and has seen nothing but blizzard and woman she believes to be greatest sorceress in world. There is nothing yet ingrained in her to respond.

“Inside is your father, the king.” Now this word sparks something in her, for the queen has judged it the knowledge very important, that she must learn as soon as possible. The girl knows now, that king is the most important man in world, and that if she is to be good she will be his heir and continue to make her mother proud and powerful.

She isn’t sure she wants to be powerful. But mother is, and mother wants more, and mother made her so that is probably good.

She also knows what a father is. A male parent, who names you, one whom you have to respect, obey, love… but not as much as mother.

Doors open, and noise hurts but she doesn’t yet know how to react. She follows mother’s lead, and steps inside.

And rest of world stops for everybody else.

* * *

“My weregild.” The mother coos, almost mews as she watches seven little bodies swing on rope, their faces that awful, strange purple people call blue for some reason though it’s more of grey and lilac with pinch of black and scarlet, and smile doesn’t leave her face, though at one point it grows stale and uncertain.

The princess learns what brothers are only later, when she has learnt enough to recognize guilt for what it is.

She doesn’t yet have name for feelings that possess her, the way her stomach churns and turns at sight of those small, rotting bodies (she has never learnt what death was, it had been built in her from before she was an inkling of thought), swaying on wind as ravens come to feast.

Were she just a spell- child, body built and operated by magic, she would have felt nothing. She would have danced and spoke as her maker demanded. Were she a changeling, or just a creature snow and blood and ebony in truth, she would have looked with curiosity, or apathy, and noted how it was unjust, and how petty and strange humans are. And were she truly her mother’s daughter, she would have said it was just, for as she had no childhood, so they should be denied to grow old.

But she was neither of those, so she learnt regret.

* * *

She doesn’t like to think about her name. Much less discuss it. If you try to ask her about it, today, well good luck. Hope you will make it out with some teeth intact at least.

She has one name, and hundreds. It is same name, but always so different, like light reflecting off from one snowflake, viewed from different angles. Run away to so many countries, run for so long, and of course it is changed so many times, of course it is translated when she has such dumb name. She hates the original too, but she hates variations even more- what right do they have to change her name, to change anything about her and her damned story? And change it they do, oh yes, cutting off parts and rearranging them, calling her Snowdrop and Snow White and Snežana and Blanche-Neige and Branca de Neve and Albanix and Sneewittchen and Schneewittchen and she can’t number them all, snow and whiteness everywhere…

She is well aware that her name is literal and obvious and dumb, and if you ever point it out it won’t go well for you. Only once did one person ( a beautiful princess who belongs to death and dreams like her, and almost as much to flowers and briars as she belongs to snow and blood, those daughters of woods and curses), with accidental addition of too much drink, get her to talk about that, and this is what she said.

“Don’t know who called me that first. I think it came from some poor bard who burst in songs about me until he died from lack of food and sleep. Detracted from glorifying me, see. Or wait, not a bard, bard’s apprentice, about twelve. Might have had some Sight within him. Or it was my father, doesn’t matter.

People picked it up because it was only fitting name, see. I couldn’t be saddled with normal name, I was above it- and anybody else with that name would forever think of me, and it would never feel right for them. Except that now in some countries they do use my name, or version of it as a normal name so what waste of time, right?

Anyway point is they wanted to call me by something that could properly describe me and Beautiful was far too tacky and Ebony Black weird and Blood Red is just creepy so, here we are! Cheers!

The bitch never called me anything. Just my princess, my dear, my daughter. My, my, my. Always the same shit.” And of course, this is the lie, though one she prefers to believe.

Truth is, she forgot it. She forgot all names, and only roles remained.

* * *

The queen did one true kindness to her, because anything else would have been incredibly harmful for her goals, and because she wasn’t wholly bereft of morals and reason, and still it hurt.

She had made it, when she cast her spell, when she screamed her wish in reality, when she bargained, that her daughter would have mind befitting her seeming age. Because stupid daughter was useless, and better no child than one _that_ had that kind of problems (queen was biggest supporter of leaving people who were anything less than perfect, or at least acceptable, to die in woods, whether they were loving father gone senile or caring brother whose arm had to be amputated), and because she hated associating with such people- and in her mind, whoever had limping leg or trembling hands, or who had problems with reading or remembering faces was worse than animal, for animals could be useful, and toothless dogs were to be put down.

The girl had barely settled in her new form, though she walked with grace unparalleled and strode with pride and strength only queen herself could outshine, when she began changing and growing. She didn’t know how to feel about that, as she wasn’t normal girl, and already half way past through puberty, and nobody would ever tease her, or think her anything less but most beautiful creature they had ever seen.

(Creature. A step up from thing.)

Still, it felt strange, and uncomfortable, and very wicked to have her change and grow before she had truly had chance to enjoy her girlhood. The queen, who was very clever, and knew how to nurse man from brink of death as well as she knew how to craft a drink to paralyze an ox for six hours, explained her how everything about her body worked, and how those changes were completely natural, and how she would soon grow taller and how her face would get slimmer and more mature. In fact, she was growing up at same pace as most girls did, and that delighted queen greatly, for woman grown was an enemy, and eternally young girl was useless, and not to mention a great annoyance.

(That was part of why she waited so long, until she was ready to cast her spell. It took time to find information, and to convince everybody she had lost her reason, but she wanted to put it off as far as possible, because raising child was such dull and taxing affair, and she really didn’t need additional source of wrinkles.)

The princess had never woken up her parents and nurses in middle of night with her incessant crying. She had never fallen and scraped her knee and broken in hysterics. She had never climbed tree. She had never played ball. She had never been carried in her father’s arms. She had never been told bedtime stories. She had never learned to read, or been tutored in counting. Her mother had never explained to her how to comb her hair. She had never had it explained to her how children are born, nor what marriage was. She had never muddied her dress. She had never played with kittens.

(She had never needed to have dying explained to her.)

She wasn’t naive (spell-girls built by men often were, inexperience and weakness and dependence of child in an adult body, but her mother had grander, more arrogant fantasies, though no less sick), she wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t lost. She had grown, and adapted to her world, and soon all things she missed, all knowledge and experience she wasn’t born with, granted by magic, became part of her.

But lacuna where her childhood should have been remained, raw and gaping, as if somebody had pulled out all her teeth before she had chance to bite a crust of bread.

* * *

She learns at her mother’s knee.

She learns from her father, of course, because she is made the heir, and she learns history and geography and riding and politics and swordfighting and wielding axe, but it doesn’t matter that much. Her father is a pale figure in her life, and ordinary man trembling before her, dead when she is three, and her mother walks through world as if she is above it, and hemlock and lily-of-the-valley grow behind her.

There was much to learn at the queen’s feet, even things no child should learn, even things queen never intended to teach her. Part of it was that such were times- in those days castles were small and wooden, and courts less formal and complicated, and queens themselves worked, mending clothes and pulling their weight. It could have lessened them, made them normal women in eyes of their subjects, but her mother knew how to wrap dignity and mystery around herself. She knew how to make people kneel.

Her mother taught her domestic arts, of course. She was good, dutiful wife, and more over not sort of woman who shrank away from her duty and hard work. But more important, she taught her daughter, though girl could never be sure whether by accident or intent, how to look beautiful when doing it, how to look powerful as she spun thread, exalted as she made her own bed. When queen mended her husband’s head, he lowered his head and reverently expressed his gratitude.

She taught her spellcraft, by observance at least. It was power that queen couldn’t truly have shared with her even if she wanted (and she would have rather sheared her own hair than given up one of her secrets). Her mother was skilled, learned mage, if not particularly powerful by talent alone. She drew her power from gems, herbs, potions, from rings that turned you invisible, cloaks that allowed you to fly, seven mile boots.

Snow White had leanings of witch, it seemed. Hers was power of rituals and motions, of rites and ceremonies, of dances under harvest moon that changed fate of kings, of hair ribbons cut by seven grandmothers over mountain river on which mill was built to make friendship sour… or she would have, had she ever been taught. But she had been made heir, and there was much to learn, and being witch or priestess wouldn’t have been good for her (pity, she would have made a good völva, she was pretty sure). She did pick up few things, though, but it was unavoidable.

Blood and mirrors, all she learnt.

* * *

She wondered what it was that made her beautiful.

Her skin? Her skin, so white that it blinded, white as snow that covered ground swiftly after the last harvests, like snow in which travellers met their demise, like snow that stopped wars. Her skin, which was always smooth and tight and hard, like marble, whose touch was always cool, which didn’t grow blue even when she stood wet on roof during whole winter night, which always carried chill of a dead man in itself, even during midsummer.

Her lips? Her lips, with their perfect shape, and their full colour, which never paled or chapped, as if they were painted on, colour of blood seeping from fresh venison, colour of blood gushing from child’s cut arteries, lips that tasted of iron and salt and minced flesh, that left bruises on cheeks they kissed, which could withstand warmth of broth just pulled from hearth (though she despised heat to such amount that she felt uneasy to spend more than few hours in room in which fireplace was lit).

Her hair? Her hair, so long and wild, spreading out like crown of ancient tree, slipping down below her waist, and yet somehow it never got tangled up in world around it, slipping like snake through all obstacles, black as ebony, as handles of spears that pierced children, as frames of windows that kept out wind and rain. Left and right it reached, like shadow of branches, like hands of bogeys, and never it got tangled, never did it get torn or weak.

Some said that when she had been growing up, that she had never had to suffer zits, or growth spurts, or ungainly limbs, that she had simply slipped in perfect ladylike adulthood. Others yet said that she suffered all indignities of childhood, of being teenager, and yet she was most beautiful of them all.

She wondered what it was that made people beautiful. There was woman with most stunning purple eyes, like lilac blossoms, like dusk sky, and people agreed she was very beautiful, but were disgusted by sight of her shoulders, filled with short, fat, coarse black hairs. There was tall man, very strong and muscled, in way that would have drawn him much attention, were it not for his crooked yellow teeth, dull chin and broken nose. There were children who had cutest, sweetest faces, with shining eyes and soft lips, who walked with bent backs and reedy fingers. It seemed all very much strange and whimsical and cruel to her, and very much useless and foolish.

She was beautiful. No, she was fair. Were she malnourished and her face slashed and mutilated, were she turned in beast, in worm or featherless bird (those two were equally dreary things, in her mother’s opinion) still she would have been the best of them. When she came to doors, though they were closed, inside men waited and stopped breathing, awaiting her. They trailed after her, excited to earn her favour. Still she was a girl, and magic inside her was settling, so she wasn’t fairest in the world, but one day wars would be waged for her, because of her, in her name. One day, when she had grown bitter and harsh and so much angrier, at gaze of her people would prostate themselves, and shake from being in same room with her, and they would not sleep, memories muddled and drunk, and in dreams they would swear to her again and again, for fear and love would mingle in one.

Her mother was beautiful, and sorceress, and she had killed and fucked and loved, and she had much gold, and she could make fields prosper and cows miscarry with her spells, and men dreaded her, and respected her, and loved her. Her grandmother called her Freyja made human, and paid for it.

Snow White had been called goddess, and valkyrie, and many more things. And she may have possessed spark of that true, primordial beauty, but she was mortal still. Gods were born and could die but not like men. Snow White breathed, and slept, and she could cut herself, and she could get lost, and she had thrown tantrums before, and were you to cut her throat she would die. She was not a goddess, to rule over skies and dead, at best she was an image, a shadow, a mask, shallow surface layer of divine beauty, not enough to charm stars in kneeling before her, but heavy enough that it crushed her.

(When she was young, she saw her mother’s mirror once. It’s frame was twisted and strained thing, contorted in ways that were hard to look at, like a dying snake experiencing a seizure. The glass was colour of frozen mercury, and reflection in it wasn’t opposite of reality, and sometimes it churned and twisted, making little waves, and always it whispered.

Most people stayed away from it, and even the queen couldn’t bear to be too long in room with it, but the princess was drawn to it, like iron to magnet.

“Oh. You are like me.” Whispered the mirror, in toneless voice that echoed in her head, and it pulsed like heart, and writhed like worms in waves, and sighed as she put her cold fingers over it’s surface, neither chill nor warm.)

* * *

It was easy to become a king, she learnt. You had to be born a prince, or earn king’s favour, or lie to enough people so they would bow to you, or kill enough of them, preferably previous king too. All in all, it seemed very stupid and unfair to Snow White, who didn’t really get why people needed kings, but said nothing because she knew what was appropriate, and because she was raised to inherit kingdom and didn’t really think of how unjust it was outside of random musings.

It wasn’t easy to become a queen, no matter what some thought and said. Any woman could be married to king, depending on how picky he was, and how much politics demanded from him, and how much he disrespected her rights. But only few became queens, true rulers, because they were taught not to seek respect and power, because they were beaten back, because game was set against them, because they were declawed and defanged and chained since earliest age, because they were taught to find pride and comfort in being silenced and starved. It took certain rare amount of cleverness and stubbornness and dedication, and, perhaps, ruthlessness, to become queen.

But Snow White didn’t have to worry about that. Her mother loved her, and worked hard to ensure that her daughter would never have to go through all the trouble and misery she had to dredge through, and still she would get so much more. It was so hard for her poor mother, after all, to stand and suggest her idea to the king as he was busy being enraptured by his daughter.

How could he refuse her? How could he name anybody else but his most incredible daughter as his heir (the queen gritted her teeth), how could he dishonour her by not offering her everything he had? And would not people rebel if anybody else ruled them, would not enemies beg to be stricken down by her? So he thought, and declared, and people were outraged and shocked until they had seen her, and then ambassadors returned to their kings weeping, telling them they have been become traitors, for never could their hearts belong to anybody but queen Snow White.

Thus, thought it was expected that she would be married, for that is what normal people did, and beauty didn’t prevent people from grumbling when they weren’t near her, there was never much pressure for that, and everybody understood that no man would be worthy of her, and all would be blessed to have her as bride, and they would only be consorts, never kings.

It was taken for granted that there would be no problem finding suitors for her, aside from possibly having to deal with wars that rejected suitors would bring to their footsteps ( something that would easily be dealt with, not only because the king was good warrior, and the queen even better sorceress, but because any invader would have to carve their path through whole nation of berserkers ready to die for their princess, and even more ready to tear apart any who would dare to try to steal her away). It was also taken for granted that king would have to pay no dowry, and that indeed princes would be ones bleeding their people dry in hopes of winning her over.

As was only proper, the queen had been one to choose her son-in-law, for the princess had asked her so, for her mother had assured her countless times of how much she cared, how smart she was, and how much more experienced, and she would be able to choose only the best for her dear daughter, a man whose kingdom would always provide for her, a man who would be her age and always kind to her, for those were hefty favours to ask in marriage, her mother told her. Kind husband was something you had to earn, as the queen did, but since she was such kind mother and her daughter so special, she would get all the spoils without any work.

And truly, the queen chose well. Prince was the same (apparent) age as Snow White, and he was sole heir of nearby kingdom, richer and greater than one her father ruled (so greater that only thing that kept it from swallowing up their home, aside from their king’s courtesy, was the queen, who knew all plans and desires of their neighbours, and could hold off the harvest and spring for years). He was said to be canny but honest, and rather good with sword and bow but pleasant, never one to seek out bloodshed. He was honourable and fair, and though well liked by ladies, hadn’t dishonoured even one.

It sounded like bullshit to her, to be honest. Even her father, who was fair and wise, had his moments- he loved brawl, especially when he broke somebody’s bones. And Snow White, well, she kept herself away from people, and never harmed anybody (but never helped out either), and still she had cruelty built in down to smallest piece of herself. Still, there were no whispers, no juicy gossip, and mirror found nothing unsatisfying and dangerous about him (for her mother would never lend her greatest treasure to somebody who would damage it), and so it was that Snow White was to be engaged.

The princess had met his parents, once or twice, for they sometimes rode out near borders of her country, and she had scried them, once she learnt where she was to be wed, in bronze mirror she had and rarely used for anything else. The king was thin, wiry man, with wild graying beard and wry voice, covered in pale old scars, and missing few teeth, and otherwise utterly unremarkable. His wife, a merchant’s daughter they said he married for love, was short and warm woman, as sweet and well beloved as fat, greased meal in late autumn, with face as round as apple and eyes like chestnuts, or so flatterers said.

The prince was very handsome, they said. He was of fine face and figure, strong and healthy, with teeth that were nearly white, and warm eyes like amber, with flickers of gold inside it. His skin was of warm, ruddy tone, and he moved with energetic, dangerous strength and grace, as if he had fire inside himself. With his auburn hair, like wood in fall, and his clothes, all gold and russet, he was said to be as beautiful as sunrise.

He wasn’t, and she envied him for that. She envied them all, him for his ordinary beauty, his mother for her soft, sweet features, his father for being unremarkable and gray.

( Snow White was a human girl, and so she was often prey to all misfortunes that plagued them, even teen woes. But as wrapped up in magic and mystery as she was, even that had to be unusual.

Truth is, Snow White is envious of everybody. There isn’t a single face, single body she doesn’t desire more than hers. She desires form that some would find boring, nothing special, perhaps even funny or repulsive. She envies her mother’s fallen rival, her father’s former lady, her brother’s mother, for she is famous for her eyes as blue as sea, but princess finds neither salt nor waves nor fishes nor thousand shades and forms of water in them. She envies the cook’s apprentice, for though she is known as very attractive woman, and it brings her trouble occasionally, she can talk to her brothers without them shaking with glee as they look at her. She envies her prince’s mother, who is loved and respected for reasons that have nothing to do with beauty.

She has had her fair share of crushes, never acted on because they weren’t appropriate for somebody of her status, because her mother wouldn’t be satisfied with her choice, because they couldn’t stop drooling when she passed. And so they all died, candle flames extinguished before they were anything more than a spark, leaving her to choke on guilt and longing and bitterness, to suffocate in impossible, petty desires.

She had never desired anybody because of their looks. She couldn’t, because she had never been able to perceive beauty in people, because she had herself to rate them against. She looked at finest examples of human beauty and found thousand flaws, looked at them and saw how artificial it was, how dependent on right time and place and taste. Snow White could be skinned alive and have her bones broken and her head split open and covered in dirt and yet anywhere in world they would proclaim her the most beautiful.

But she couldn’t be loved or desired. She was too stark and sharp and terrible for that. She wasn’t a girl whose hand you could hold, woman who you could lay against, a person to hug and kiss and laugh with. Everything in her was hard and cold, like ice sculpture. She was there to be looked at, not loved. Because even as humans adored beautiful people, they didn’t love ones who had truly been beautiful.

Human beauty was shallow, false and thin. All humans were equally beautiful, and they just had to work more or less on convincing others to find them attractive. But Snow White bore true beauty, heavy as mountain, truer than her father’s blade. Primordial, essential, actual, her beauty was a true, divine thing, real and defined in mutable, shapeless world of human misconceptions. She was a marble statue trapped among embroidered caricatures, and she envied them so much.)

So she held no hopes, and received a grand surprise. For though her prince’s eyes seemed ready to fall out of his skull, and bliss sparkled in them as tears gathered on edges, after some time he composed himself and gave her warm, cocky smile, and bowed and kissed her hand and talked with her.

They talked. They rode on horses. He laughed at her embroidery. She rolled eyes at his jokes. They showed each other their favourite hiding places. They sparred with hands and swords. He lost to her in race and she in archery. They walked in woods and put their knowledge of animals and herbs to trial. She learnt that he was truly as good and honest as he was rumoured to be, but easily bored, and he could get lost daydreaming, and loved to go sight seeing, and fussed too much about his clothes. He learnt that she liked to forage berries, and kept falcons, and hated jewellery, and was horrible dancer. They had even argued few times!

She fell in love with him, a little. Enough that they kept contact when she ran away. Enough that he wanted to expose queen’s crimes. Enough that he wanted to give her honour of burial. Enough that when he died, she walked away.

Enough that he said nothing, when she commissioned shoes for her mother.

(“ I wish he’d at least pretend to treat me like person.” She had whispered, standing alone in his father’s corridors, and when she met him she believed he was somehow immune to her beauty , that he saw person underneath.

“Stop with that!” She shouted, when men offered her their hearts, and they did, and only later she noticed that some people adored her in quiet, steadfast way, no less terrible but much subtler, because they didn’t want to die for her, they wanted to serve her.

“I love you.” She told him, and of course he said yes, of course he loved her, he had to, even as he laid dying, and years later she kept wondering whether she imagined something russet and golden running at end of corridors.)

* * *

When she is queen, she will keep her chambers bare.

Everything about her will be bare, and simple, and cold. They will say, her husband’s people, when they are far away from her, that it is because she comes from colder, humbler, more barbarian kingdom that she is unused to fine luxury (she likes simple things because she spent so much time in _the woods_ , they say, not understanding how rich, how elaborate, how beautiful everything was there, roots mingling and binding each other in knotwork, impossible shapes in bark, flowers worth more than jewels everywhere around her.)

There will be no excess, no luxury in her sanctuary. No tapestries, no costly furniture, no mirrors. Only bare, chill stone and bed to uphold a minor illusion of normalcy ( a girl of ice and death born, she has slept on Forest floor, and dreamed in mines, and slumbered in coffin of glass and gold). No satin, no velvet, no silk, no gowns or embroidery or crown, for she has no need of them.

No jewellry. Nobody will again tell her she is as precious as gems at her throat.

* * *

She doesn’t dream. She remembers. She remembers memories that are not hers, lodged in between her flesh and bones.

She remembers winter. Always, always it is with her, more crucial than breath, than her name, almost as important as her beauty. She remembers cold of Niflheimr and of coming of first spring. She remembers snowflakes forming in clouds and melting on human faces, the mountain tips lined with white, the ice covering pines, the frost on abandoned blades, the rime that gathers at hem of lost shawls, the chill creeping over river’s stones, the snowdrops rising from forming poodles, the crunch of frozen ground as her mother goes to border of Forest.

She remembers having bark, which protected her from rain, and wind, from cold and bugs. She remembers having roots, digging through soil, pulling water and minerals from ground, reaching out to taste sunlight. She remembers how it felt when sap coursed through her, her branches swaying on wind, her leaves remaining green even in winter as those of her neighbours turned brown and red and fell, remembers feeding on rotting flowers and grass caressing her trunk, the seeds falling and spreading, birds making nest in her crown, the queen’s knife cutting branches off, off, off.

She remembers being warm, and flowing, being inside the veins. She remembers being child crying for parents lost to plague, the leper cast out of town, the old woman begging for scraps. She remembers warm, concerned voices of mothers who aren’t hers, remembers being father, and having gray hair, and being hungry, and told she is ugly (in waking world she cannot imagine that feeling bad, but in dream it is, remembers childhoods that aren’t hers. She remembers being scared of bleeding, being cold, and queen saving her/him/them, of being servants and obeying all her wishes, being trusted, and she remembers the blade, the curse, flowing over figure made out of snow until it turns pink, staining and clotting upon ebony talismans.

She dreams of hands upon her throat, and dying, and melting, losing everything, going to no hall, rejoining earth and water and coldness, and it is so peaceful that she almost regrets when she wakes up…

These are terrors that follow her in her dreams. In waking world, she cannot escape seven boys, running after her like most loyal dogs, begging to serve her.

* * *

At edge of every kingdom there is Forest.

There is difference between a forest and the Forest, just as there is difference between beautiful person and Snow White. The first is just bunch of trees and animals, which, perhaps bit scary at night, can be cut down and cleared away. But the Forests, are so much more, existing outside of civilized world, thinking and feeling and hungering, holding darkness and treasures and monsters within. Place where secrets are born, where miracles go to die, where Quests are done.

The Forests don’t like people. They say that Forests were forged from Ymir’s dying curse, and therefore there is terrible, chaotic power in them. Thousands of years ago, they marched against them, marched against whole world, and in three days humanity was crushed. For the Forests were grown before intelligent life came to be, and they despised men and their accomplishments. And so no weapon, no spell, no thing made by mortal hands held power within Forests. The strongest sorcerers were rendered powerless, and sharpest blade failed to cut.

It waits for her. Castle where she grew was far away from Forests, so far away that you couldn’t even see it on horizon, even as a dark line, but Snow White felt it every day. Being a human girl, somewhat, she didn’t know how to feel about it, and sometimes she could ignore it so well that she forgot it’s existence, and sometimes it occupied all her thoughts.

(Were she only a spell-child, she would have noticed nothing. Were she a changeling, each day she would have felt same, and knew exact reason why. But mortal she was, and thus she was plagued with uncertain heart.)

Whether she wants or not, someday she will go to the Forest. Things like her must, just as snow must fall. She is too strange and cursed, even for a world full only of witches. She is meant for legends, and some tale will dig it’s claws in her, and every tale has it’s beginnings in Forest, even ones who have nothing to do with them. And she dreads when that day comes, because in Forest no spell can last, and what shall happen to her then?

(They are at her mother’s hidden halls, as they are at every of her birthdays. She is seven, but to rest of the world she is twenty. She rides out, and huntsman accompanies her.

She is always accompanied by somebody, of course, because she must be protected, because always there is danger she would be kidnapped, for who wouldn’t want to possess her? The huntsman is young, and good looking, or so she supposes. To her he looks like washed out, boring bunch of bones and flesh, but other girls say he is handsome, and to his misfortune queen agrees. But he is young, and he wants to live, and he is smart, but he has got conscience and she is so beautiful, that he breaks down and confesses everything.

A mother willing to kill her own daughter, and eat her intestines. Sounds horrible, but once they spend some time with princess people understand, even if they believe she was born like them. To live alongside somebody so beautiful, to be outshined while you grew older, weaker, as death came closer, that was horrible enough, but knowledge that nothing you ever do will help you come even closer to impossible ideal that is Snow white is horrible enough. Nobody could live with her, no more than they could gaze in Sun for years.

And besides, beauty like that, it doesn’t belong to this world, doesn’t come from it, and as such isn’t meant to exist there. Beauty like that, it is meant for higher, greater places, not this dreary, low world. It is meant to be a tragedy, a warning, something to mourn for forever even if we never had it. Girls like that, they exist to be beautiful corpses, because no matter what they say, it doesn’t matter because nobody will care for anything else but their faces, so this way they do favour to everybody. You can’t blame the queen, they say, and after all, makes sense for one who created her to be one to get rid of her.

For first time in her measly seven years of life, Snow White understands how her mother thinks. And she knows what will happen were she to face her.

She turns, and runs in heart of the Forest, in darkness, because it’s monsters are at least honest.)

* * *

_She is five hundred and sixty three years old when she sacrifices first child to escape._

_Oh, not in usual sense, not yet anyway (it will be little bit longer before she drags children to crossroads at midnight and spills their blood and cooks their hearts to buy escape). Of course, she has killed young people, and somebody’s children before, some of them her own descendants, but she has never sacrificed any child. She hasn’t taken something innocent and powerless and blameless and cut it’s life short to buy few more seconds, because that isn’t how story goes. people tell it, and they believe, and souls are dragged from death to relieve it. And hers is the simplest story. The queen is powerful, and she desires her death, and Snow White runs until she is caught and put in glass coffin, and then everything begins anew._

_She has lived near village for some seven years by then, wrapped up in shawls and masks, because even though it doesn’t stop people from gazing in awe it stops them from kneeling, because they only feel her beauty, don’t see true miracle of her face. She has kept out of troubles, and even worked in mines so help the village, and she has scried lost children and horses in ice and coins, and brought them home from deep dark woods. And yet, man whose broken leg she healed heard rumours, and connected dots, and went in wide world to tell the queen. And what could she do, but take off her shawls and masks and go down, as they parted before her, as they knelt, and drag his only daughter from her home with but a smile._

_“You did a cruel, horrible thing. You were hurting, and a horrible thing was done to you over and over again, and nobody helped, and you wanted to settle accounts, so you decided to be unfair as well. it didn’t help you in the end, but you decided destroying something small and blameless will make you feel better.” The old, ugly woman with burned face and shadowed hood, her hands wiped clean of young blood and charred flesh, of grave dust and rime that rested on it but moments ago, dressed in gray and russet tells her, as they hide in cave, as she tends Snow White’s wounds and ignores her beauty, as she holds her even as death tries to drag her down. Snow White ignores her words, takes neither lesson nor grudge from them- the world had walked over, broken and spat out Cinderella, letting her be nothing but slave, nothing but ceaseless, unpaid servant, nothing but role assigned by her story, the old woman who will never be saved, hollowed out as they still dig inside her, for she must burn again and again to bring dawn and wonder and aid to mankind. She doesn’t understand revenge because she has no hope, no happiness, no way out from her life, but Snow White won’t be broken like that. Snow White will be strong for them both, for all those trapped in mockery of their lives, ground up to dust under wheel of fate so humanity can enjoy it's bedtime stories._

_“Do you love me? Do you dare think you are worthy of sight of me? Prove it to me!” She roars, cackles, smirks as traitor cries from grief and terror, from gratitude and exaltation , as lighting races from her mother’s shining rings, and girl cries and nods, laughs and bows and jumps in front of blazing magic to protect the fairest thing in the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading hope you liked it!  
> next chapters will deal more with Snow White's perspective.
> 
> I would also want to state that, as we are in state of pandemic, that I pray all of you are safe and healthy, alongside your families, friends and everybody you care. Please keep safe, and I hope that your countries are doing good job of treating sick and preventing spreading, and if not, that it will improve.
> 
> I would also ask everybody to remember that Black Lives Matter, and to be aware of injustice and horrifiying atrocity being perpetuated on our fellow human beings. Please keep yourself aware and try to help in any way you can. If you are capable of contributing to cause, here is lists of actions that could require your help: https://patterns-acnh.tumblr.com/post/619576410575699968/places-to-donate-and-sign-to-support-blm. and if you aren't in situation, no shame, but at least check out this video: https://poguesgold.tumblr.com/post/619746026049421312/how-to-donate-to-blm-when-you-have-no-money
> 
> Also, if you are able to, please help out White Mountain Apache Tribe, who was harshly impacted by Covid-19, in large part due to irresponsibility and apathy of government: https://www.gofundme.com/f/white-mountain-apache-tribe-covid19-relief-fund  
> Alongside Indigenous People who are protesting desecration of sacred lands stolen from Lakota people: https://bhlegalfund.org/


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